


Beauty

by Moonfreckle (Sunfreckle)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Friends With Benefits, Hand Jobs, How the hell do I tag this?, I think?, I wrote it for the aesthetic, M/M, Nonbinary Grantaire, Other, Porn with Feelings, Smut, Trans Montparnasse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 17:57:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13440153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunfreckle/pseuds/Moonfreckle
Summary: Grantaire stares, slightly dismayed by the sight. Montparnasse is so unfairly beautiful. Grantaire wishes he was drunker than he is. Right now he’s in that torturous state between sobriety and inebriation that leaves him too aware of the world and unable to deny it. It’s not like he’s never looked at Montparnasse before. Of course he has. He has even sketched him a couple of times. But…perhaps Grantaire has never dared to look at him like this.





	Beauty

**Author's Note:**

> I blame Adrian for this, because he sold me on the aesthetic and made me _suffer_ through writing this because it was _very_ hard to keep these two from being angsty.  
>  This is as fluffy as I can get these two ending up in bed together. I hope I did well enough.  
> (Thank you Deb for helping and being patient <3)
> 
> (Trans Montparnasse, Nonbinary (he/they) Grantaire, both early twenties)
> 
> Cw: alcohol, gross misquoting of philosophy.

“I already promised to crash here,” Grantaire complains as Éponine takes his car keys off him.

“Don’t remind me,” Montparnasse snarks from the other room.

“Yeah,” Éponine says, pocketing his keys. “But I don’t trust you for shit.” She grins. “And if you’re going to try and tell me you’ll be awake before I return from my morning shift you’re a filthy liar.”

Grantaire lets out a groan and falls down onto Montparnasse’s couch. Éponine is less fun now she’s got a steady job. It’s also the reason he isn’t staying at her place. She has to get up stupidly early.

“Oi,” Éponine says. “Up. Give me a hug.” She grabs one of his hands and tries to pull him up off the couch, but instead Grantaire drags her down into his arms.

“ _Ack_ ,” she protests, but she hugs him back all the same.

Grantaire lets her go just in time to see Montparnasse’s judgemental sneer. Not that _he_ gets to escape giving Éponine a proper goodbye, of course. She doesn’t try to hug him like she did Grantaire, but he still gets a quick embrace and an affectionate shove. Grantaire snorts, because he’s pretty sure the disgruntled grimace on Montparnasse’s face is really only for his benefit. Montparnasse has known Éponine far longer than he has.

“Well, night-night then,” Éponine chimes, disappearing into the hallway. “See you tomorrow!” She closes the door firmly behind her and Grantaire leans back on the couch while Montparnasse walks to the window overlooking the street. His movements are nonchalant and indifferent, but Grantaire knows that from that window it’s just possible to see the front door of Éponine’s building across the street. Grantaire is sure Montparnasse is watching to see her safely home.

Realizing that he still has his jacket on, Grantaire shrugs it off his shoulders and drapes it over the side of the couch. It’s kind of an eyesore there. Montparnasse’s place is always ridiculously neat.

“Sorry about invading your space, I guess,” Grantaire hums, looking up.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Montparnasse says, still looking out of the window. “If I didn’t want you here I would have kicked you out already.”

“Aw, _Parnasse_ ,” Grantaire drawls. He can practically hear Montparnasse roll his eyes in response and he chuckles. It wouldn’t be the first time he sleeps here actually, but it has been a while. “We’re overdue for a sleepover, aren’t we?” he grins. “You want to play truth or dare?”

Instead of dignifying that with a response Montparnasse moves to the side of the window, lowering his head a little as he looks out.

The amused grin on Grantaire’s face falters. Montparnasse is leaning against the window, one hand high on the frame and his hip just touching the windowsill. In the shadows cast by the curtain the contrast between his pale skin and his dark hair is even more striking than usual. He looks like a damn painting.

Grantaire stares, slightly dismayed by the sight. Montparnasse is _so_ pretty. So unfairly beautiful. Grantaire wishes he was drunker than he is. Right now he’s in that torturous state between sobriety and inebriation that leaves him too aware of the world and unable to deny it. It’s not like he’s never looked at Montparnasse before. Of course he has. He has even sketched him a couple of times. But…perhaps Grantaire has never dared to look at him like this.

Éponine must have closed her front door behind her, because Montparnasse suddenly moves away from the window and draws the curtains. Grantaire watches him do it and wishes he hadn’t. Montparnasse has had a couple of drinks as well, so his movements are not as polished and calculated as they usually are. But that only means they have more of his natural elegance, it’s nearly painful to watch. At least it is to Grantaire.

He’s still staring when Montparnasse turns around. His grey eyes meet Grantaire’s and instead of making a snide remark about staring, he looks back without saying a word. His expression is almost thoughtful and Grantaire is cursing himself right now. He should have gone home. Why does he have to try and be friends with attractive people? He’s too weak for this shit. Too easily undone by-

Montparnasse moves and Grantaire loses his train of thought.

“What?” Montparnasse says, smirking slightly.

Grantaire isn’t quite sure what he’s asking and he sure as hell doesn’t have an answer. He opens his mouth anyway, because he’s like that, and the words that come out are rather drawn out and heavy. “Pulchrum est paucorum hominum.”

Montparnasse slants his head. He looks amused, but his eyes don’t leave Grantaire’s face. “Who’s that by?” he asks.

Grantaire swallows. “Nietsche.” The tilt of Montparnasse’s head is as bad as the curve of his mouth.

One corner of Montparnasse’s mouth twitches a little further upwards. He moves his lips soundlessly for a moment and Grantaire can just make out the shapes of the syllables he just spoke himself. “Beauty…” Montparnasse says slowly. “Beauty is what?”

“For the few,” Grantaire replies, almost mindlessly. To his surprise Montparnasse smiles. The smile lingers and it spreads across his features with a languid movement that makes Grantaire almost angry with admiration.

Montparnasse is not just smiling though, he’s looking at Grantaire with a nearly appraising look behind his eyes. “How true,” he smirks vainly. “But…” The smile widens a little for just a second. “I can be generous when the mood takes me.” His gaze slides down Grantaire’s body for a moment before darting back up to his eyes. “Maybe I’m willing to share.”

Grantaire’s brain doesn’t quite know how to process that. He looks up at Montparnasse, who is tall even when not looming over him and shakes his head. “Don’t,” he says blankly. “The world couldn’t take it.”

The soft sound of Montparnasse’s laugh sticks to Grantaire’s skin. He’s known Montparnasse for quite a while now, but he’s never heard him laugh like that.

“I’d forgotten how much more I like you with a bit of whiskey in you,” Montparnasse says, his smirk growing to a grin as he walks to the couch and sits down by Grantaire. “Better than wine.”

He’s leaning towards him and Grantaire’s heart has begun to beat- not _faster_ exactly, but certainly louder. Montparnasse can’t be doing what Grantaire thinks he’s doing. Can he?

With his elbow leaning on the back of the couch and his hand supporting his head, Montparnasse looks eerily like a painting again. “What else did your mister Nietzsche say about beauty?” he asks lightly.

Grantaire looks at his eyes, his mouth, his cheeks, his curved eyebrows, the dark hair falling past his forehead. “That it’s a narcotic,” he breathes. “An illusion. The highest form…” Montparnasse is leaning closer and Grantaire is only still speaking because he is incapable of shutting up at the best of times. “…the highest form of the lowest pretence.”

“Hm,” Montparnasse hums. “I was hoping for more Latin.”

By rights Montparnasse should smell like vice and darkness, but he never does. He always smells vaguely sweet. Like the products he uses in his hair…

Montparnasse closes the last bit of distance between them and Grantaire has just enough time to see the light dance in his grey eyes before he feels his lips against his own. His eyes fall shut.

◊

Grantaire tastes as good as Montparnasse imagined he would. Not to say that it’s something he has thought about _often_ , but he spends too much time with Grantaire for it to never have crossed his mind. And tonight was fun. Genuinely. Grantaire is good company, far too pessimistic about certain things, but he knows how to have a good time. Besides, it’s late, Montparnasse is curious and he can still feel the tingling on his skin wherever Grantaire’s eyes were fixed on him. Come to think of it, he’d like some more of that.

Montparnasse pulls away, opening his eyes to look at Grantaire, and he makes no attempt to hide his smugness as he takes in the dazed expression on Grantaire’s face. That’s a pretty good reward for so little effort. He grins, slowly.

“Truth or dare, R,” he drawls and without waiting for an answer he bows his head and brings his mouth to Grantaire’s neck.

The sigh that escapes Grantaire’s lips sounds completely involuntary and Montparnasse nearly chuckles. He hums, demanding an answer.

“Wh-what?” Grantaire stumbles and his voice sounds deliciously distracted.

“Truth-” Montparnasse repeats, punctuating each word with a nip at Grantaire’s neck. “Or. Dare.”

Grantaire’s breathing hitches, but he swallows it down. “Truth,” he breathes.

“Boring,” Montparnasse mutters chidingly, kissing his way down the curve of Grantaire’s throat. He grins against his skin when he feels Grantaire’s fingers slide into his hair and stroke the nape of his neck. Grantaire touches him the same way he kissed just now. Gentle. Almost reverent. Montparnasse has no problem with being worshipped, none at all, but he doesn’t want respectful restraint. That’d be a damn waste of a night. Obviously Grantaire wants this, badly. So all he needs to do is find the right buttons to press to get that self-control slipping through those calloused fingers of his. Truth… Truth…

He hooks his fingers through the loops of Grantaire’s jeans and gives a little tug, pulling him closer.

Grantaire’s breath stutters again.

“Loud or quiet?” Montparnasse asks, lifting his eyes to Grantaire’s face.

“Loud,” he blurts out.

“Good to know,” Montparnasse smirks and he pulls Grantaire into another slow kiss. At length he lets the kiss grow shallow and when Grantaire takes a gulp of air Montparnasse mutters: “Your turn.

Grantaire tries to pull back, but Montparnasse kisses him deeper. Grantaire’s hands are on his hips now, but there’s still something hesitant about the press of his fingers. He mutters something and Montparnasse breaks away with a chuckle. “Hm?”

“Truth or dare,” Grantaire swallows and Montparnasse nearly squirms under his gaze. If only Grantaire would let his hands at him the way he does his eyes.

“Truth,” he says, sliding his own hands down Grantaire’s chest towards his jeans.

The eager, involuntary movement of Grantaire’s hips makes him grin, but low and breathy as his voice is, Montparnasse doesn’t like his question:

“You really- really want-?”

Montparnasse answers by digging his fingers into Grantaire’s thighs through the worn fabric of his jeans. Grantaire groans and lets his head fall back against the back of the couch.

That’s better.

“I never do anything – or any _one_ – I don’t want,” Montparnasse says forcefully, touching and squeezing deliberately enough to make Grantaire bite back a moan.

“Ok, ok-” he pants. Suddenly a faint grin flickers on his straining face. “No need to snap. You did say truth.”

“Well it was a stupid question,” Montparnasse sniffs. But Grantaire moves differently now, his shoulders are less tense, his hands are reaching out with less care and more eagerness. _Good_.

Before Grantaire manages to pull Montparnasse towards him, however, Montparnasse leans away. He lets himself slide down – Grantaire’s eyes burning on him as he does so – until he’s sitting on the floor, kneeling between Grantaire’s legs.

“And since you wasted yours-” he says, looking up at Grantaire. “-I get one free.”  He plays with the button of Grantaire’s jeans. “Hands our mouth?”

The answer that spills from Grantaire’s lips is barely audible and even though Montparnasse understood him anyway, he sees fit to interpret it as ‘both’. He drags both demin and cotton out of the way and relishes the choked sounds escaping from Grantaire’s throat as Montparnasse takes him in his mouth. To his satisfaction he suddenly feels a hand in his hair again, but Grantaire doesn’t try to dictate his pace and Montparnasse takes his time. He usually does, but this time there’s an extra incentive. Grantaire’s English is starting to slip.

Montparnasse keeps going. Speeding up and slowing down, his hands helping where his mouth can’t reach, until Grantaire is swearing in Portuguese. He sounds so frantic Montparnasse looks up at him in smug amusement.

The moment their eyes meet Grantaire’s fingers twist into Montparnasse’s hair with a sudden sharp tug. Montparnasse throws his head back with an appreciative gasp, but can’t help making a disapproving noise. “Don’t tell me you’ve had enough al-”

Grantaire cuts him off by dragging him up off his knees by his shirt and kissing him hard on the mouth. Montparnasse opens his mouth eagerly, but can’t quite keep his balance. With an abrupt movement that is just as frantic as the sound of his voice was just now, Grantaire grabs him by the waist and shoulder and pushes him flat against the couch. Montparnasse lets out a grunt that is half surprise and half delight. Grantaire’s body is solid on top of him and Montparnasse can feel that he’s stronger – much stronger – than he looks. The world is full of pleasant surprises if you know how to draw them out.

With a low groan and a gasp Grantaire breaks out of the kiss, pushing himself up on his arms and staring down at Montparnasse hotly. “ _Fuck_ ,” he swears. “You feel even better than you look. And you are goddamn beautiful.”

Montparnasse has no time to answer. Grantaire’s lips are on his again and he contents himself with groaning into his mouth. There is not a shred left of Grantaire’s hesitance. Fucking _finally_. Montparnasse drags his fingers down Grantaire’s back through the fabric of his T-shirt and gleefully struggles for control he knows he’s not going to get.

◊

The feeling of Montparnasse writhing underneath him is making Grantaire dizzy. He wants to laugh, but his mouth is busy. Montparnasse is trying to slip one of his hands between them and Grantaire isn’t having that. He presses his hips more heavily against Montparnasse’s, catches the offending hand and pins it against the couch. Montparnasse makes a greedy sound that’s muffled by Grantaire’s tongue and in an impulse Grantaire grabs a handful of his hair again.

This time Montparnasse keens at the back of his throat and suddenly Grantaire can’t stand not being able to look at him. He sits up, dragging a gasping Montparnasse up with him. Just when Grantaire thought Montparnasse couldn’t look more attractive. The smug playfulness that filled his eyes before has been replaced by something darker and his lips seem impossibly red. Instead of kissing him again, which he _really_ wants to do, Grantaire touches Montparnasse’s face.

There’s a slight, impatient curve to Montparnasse’s mouth and Grantaire lets out a breathy laugh. “Are you always this demanding?” he asks and he chases the faint dissatisfaction away by pressing one hand against the buckle of Montparnasse’s belt at the same time as he lets his fingers trace his jawline.

“No,” Montparnasse drawls, spreading his legs a little wider. “I figured I’d go easy on you.”

Grantaire lets the hand between his legs slide lower and blows out an admiring breath as Montparnasse’s teeth bite down on his own lip. His long lashes flutter down and a shiver shoots down Grantaire’s spine and stirs frantically in his stomach. This is not enough.

“Truth or dare?” he asks and his voice comes out just a touch strained.

Montparnasse lifts up his eyes again and releases his bottom lip. “Dare-”

Grantaire lets his hand slide down Montparnasse’s neck and chest, feeling him through the layers of fabric. “Take your clothes off?”

Amusement sparks in the grey eyes and Montparnasse slants his head. “Is that a dare or a question?”

“You said something about being generous,” Grantaire says, moving his hands up and down Montparnasse’s thighs. “Show me.”

Montparnasse smirks and moves away from Grantaire, stepping off the couch and drawing himself up to his full height. Grantaire looks up at him, resisting the urge to pull him back.

“Bedroom,” Montparnasse orders, pointing to a closed door.

Grinning lopsidedly Grantaire gets to his feet and walks into the bedroom. He feels Montparnasse’s eyes burning on his back and all this still feels delightfully surreal. Since Montparnasse doesn’t follow him, Grantaire lets the door close behind him, kicks off his shoes and socks and sits down on the bed. He takes off his shirt as well, but leaves his still unbuttoned jeans be. Montparnasse can-

The door opens and Grantaire’s mind grinds to a halt. Montparnasse lingers in the doorway, a self-satisfied smile curled around his lips. He has stripped down, taken off his boxers and binder too, but put his dress shirt back on, unbuttoned. Grantaire doesn’t know whether he wants to fuck him or paint him. Montparnasse walks towards the bed and no, he does know. Montparnasse’s movements are controlled and self-indulgent again, but Grantaire has seen him let go now and he wants to see it again.

As soon as Montparnasse is within reach he catches him by his shirt. He pulls him towards him and straight into a kiss, all but forcing him to plant his knees on the bed, straddling Grantaire’s lap.

“This what you had in mind then?” Montparnasse gasps, when Grantaire lets him pull away.

“Perfect,” Grantaire breathes. “You’re perfect.” He buries his face in Montparnasse’s neck and grins when he feels him arching his back. He lets his hands wander.

◊

Montparnasse has forgotten what Grantaire was like when he still needed coaxing. His mouth is switching erratically between pressing against Montparnasse’s lips and nipping at his neck and his fingers… his _fingers_. One hand is moving wildly, grabbing at his hip one moment, tangling into his hair the next, but the other one is playing between Montparnasse’s legs with a relentless sort of effortless skill. Sliding carefully up and down, never dipping too deep and only ever grazing past the spots that make Montparnasse squirm.

Grantaire speaks, but Montparnasse has no idea what he just said. “What?” he asks, dazed.

“Lube?” Grantaire repeats, his voice heavy.

“Yes,” Montparnasse groans. “Bedside table.”

Grantaire reaches over with the hand that isn’t busy torturing Montparnasse and pulls out the bottle of lube and a packet of condoms. He uncaps the bottle and Montparnasse sighs as he finally retracts his other hand. There’s a pulsing building between his legs that is nothing short of frantic. Eagerly he grabs one of the condoms and slides his hand down to Grantaire’s crotch.

“No,” Grantaire growls and before Montparnasse can even get Grantaire’s boxers out of the way Grantaire slides his now slick fingers back between his thighs.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Montparnasse groans and he throws his head back, nearly losing his balance.

Grantaire grunts and grabs him by the back of his neck, pulling him back in. Montparnasse swallows a whimper and grabs Grantaire’s shoulders, digging his fingers in hard. Grantaire starts moving in a strange, faltering rhythm and with a shudder that spreads from the core of his body to every single one of his nerves Montparnasse realizes Grantaire was still holding back just now. Montparnasse lets a keening sound spill from his lips and Grantaire makes an adoring noise in response. Every time he twitches his fingers, Montparnasse feels tingles burning on his skin. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. By now he has no control over the noises coming out of his mouth anymore, but he tries anyway.

“Fuck me.” He isn’t swearing this time, he’s asking.

Grantaire’s voice is just as thick with want, but far more coherent. “Not yet.”

Now Montparnasse does swear. His legs are shaking and he can barely stay upright. With a frantic noise he lets himself move forward, wrapping his arms around Grantaire’s neck. Grantaire’s hand fists into his hair and he kisses him hard, swallowing his desperate whimpers. Montparnasse kisses him back as hard as he can and groans when Grantaire spreads his legs a little further by putting his own knees further apart. The tension coiling inside of him is damn near unbearable now, but Montparnasse knows he won’t be able to come without tensing his legs properly and he can’t do that in this position.

“R,” he pants, pulling out of the kiss. “Let-” But as soon as he looks into Grantaire’s face his words trail off into a weak groan. Grantaire is doing this on purpose. He’s looking at him with parted lips and darkened eyes and he knows _exactly_ what he’s doing. The hand grabbing at the back of his head is keeping him close and Montparnasse can’t move without making Grantaire stop touching him and there is no way in _hell_.

Montparnasse’s breathing has grown so shallow and uneven that he’s beginning to feel light in the head. The sound of it is ringing in his ears and no matter whether he closes or opens his eyes, spots of light dance in front of them. At this point he’s moving without meaning to, his hips chasing Grantaire’s touches. He can’t take this much longer, he really can’t.

“ _God_ , the sounds you’re making-”

Grantaire’s voice is rough and Montparnasse wants to feel him inside him so badly it hurts. But that would mean making him stop and if Grantaire stops now- He _can’t_ stop now.

A sudden shudder tears through Montparnasse’s body and Grantaire loses his grip on the back of his neck. Montparnasse slumps forward, breath locked in his chest. He feels Grantaire groping clumsily to pull him back. His hand slips and instead of grabbing Montparnasse’s neck, he grabs a handful of his hair. The sharp pull yanks Montparnasse’s head back roughly and Montparnasse _keens_.

Grantaire makes a startled noise as if he’s afraid that he hurt him, but all Montparnasse feels is the trembling in his body crashing into the shivers washing down his neck.

His eyes and mouth both open wide with the shock and for one frantic moment his entire body tenses up. Then the tension shatters into red hot pieces and a choked cry fills Montparnasse’s lungs as he comes. He is aware of nothing but the feelings burning through his entire being and the hot words of praise Grantaire is breathing into his ear. Because at some point Grantaire started talking and he hasn’t stopped. Montparnasse doesn’t really understand the words, he’s speaking Portuguese again, but it doesn’t matter. Montparnasse goes limp in his arms and lets the sound wash over him.

He feels Grantaire shift underneath him and lets out a soft noise as Grantaire pulls him close against his chest. Carefully Grantaire lies back, letting Montparnasse rest on top of him and for a moment Montparnasse just lies there, panting, breathing in Grantaire’s scent. But he has no intention of letting this energy fade. He can feel his heartbeat in the furthest reaches of his body and he’s _not_ done with Grantaire.

Carefully, willing his limbs into control again, he plants his hands on either side of Grantaire’s head and pushes himself up. His eyes are still closed, but he’s breathing the lightheadedness away fast, lips parting and closing as he finds his way back to coherency. Considering what he just did to him, Grantaire deserves both payback and a reward. Luckily they can be both and the same in this case.

“You-” Montparnasse gulps, opening his eyes and staring straight down into Grantaire’s. “-are _far_ to fucking good at that.”

Grantaire’s mouth twitches and Montparnasse gives him a single moment to be smug.

“Now,” he growls, rolling off Grantaire. “Get that _goddamn_ condom on.”

“Demanding,” Grantaire grins, but he’s in such a hurry to comply that Montparnasse forgives him for it.

And when he _finally_ complies with Montparnasse’s _earlier_ request, he forgets there was something to forgive to begin with.

**Author's Note:**

> *retreats into a corner*


End file.
